


The rules are the rules for a reason

by Lenore



Category: Logan's Run (1976)
Genre: Angst, Dystopia, First Time, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Yuletide, back story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis learns a lesson early in life. And then Logan teaches it to him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The rules are the rules for a reason

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merriman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merriman/gifts).



Francis didn't always understand the importance of rules. He had to learn that particular lesson the hard way.

His name was Nelson—Nelson 6—and they shared the same Nursery, although they were in different crib groups, so they didn't meet until year four when they graduated to the dormitory. Even now, years later, Francis could still see Nelson, the way he looked that first morning in the rec room, the moment sharp and bright in his memory. Nelson lay sprawled on the floor, playing with a holokaleidoscope, his body the center of a multi-colored cosmos of swirling shapes.

Francis marched over, intending to snatch the toy away. _The more you share, the more pleasure there is to go around._ That was what the auto-nannies taught them, but Francis had his own philosophy. _If you want something, take it._

Nelson glanced up at him, his blue eyes round and laughing, a shock of coppery red hair falling across his forehead, a splash of freckles across his nose, not that Francis understood what freckles were then.

He plopped down on the floor next to Nelson and poked at one of the dots on his face. "What's that?"

Nelson explained.

Francis frowned. "Why do you have those?"

Nelson shrugged. "Just do."

He fiddled with the holokaleidoscope's controls, and the cosmos expanded, enveloping Francis in it too. Stars—whole constellations—glittered in his eyes. Shimmering globes in every conceivable color danced along his arms. Nelson darted a shy, sideways smile, and Francis felt his stomach do cartwheels. All thought of taking the toy and making Nelson cry had gone.

They were fast friends after that. Francis bullied a whey-faced girl, Lucretia, into trading bunks with him, so he'd be next to Nelson. They spent their morning free period tearing down the wide, open expanses of the kinder-garden whooping at the top of their lungs, tossing sand at one another in the sandbox, scrambling up the climbing blocks. Year-fours were only supposed to go as far up as the green level, and they took that as a dare, goading each other into venturing higher and higher whenever the auto-nannies weren't looking. In the afternoons, they practiced their multiplication tables, and in the evenings after dinner, they curled up together on Nelson's bed to watch holostories.

Nelson smelled like warm fabric and synthmilk and paint, because art was his favorite subject. He would fling his arm around Francis's shoulders as they watched the story, and Francis could feel the sharp points of his ribs, the rush of air in and out of his lungs. The concept of "happiness" finally made sense to him.

The auto-nanny would sweep past at regular intervals, bleating, "Expand your horizons," trying to roust them apart. _One person should never be more important to you than another._ That was what they were taught.

It was a stupid rule, as far as Francis was concerned.

The day it all went wrong, Francis had been kept back after their Citizenship lesson, punishment for telling Nelson jokes when he was supposed to be paying attention. The auto-nanny set him to reciting the Tenants of Citizenship, all one hundred thirteen of them. Francis kicked sullenly at the leg of his desk as he reeled them off in a bored tone.

The commotion reached them all the way from the kinder-garden. Francis would never understand how he knew something had happened to Nelson; he just did. He leaped up from his seat and raced off toward the cries, the auto-nanny rolling along after him, chastising him for leaving class without permission.

Children huddled around the base of the climbing blocks, white-faced and sobbing. Francis pushed his way through the crowd, and there was Nelson, sprawled on the ground, his body as limp as a ragdoll's, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle, his eyes wide and staring.

A group of auto-nannies descended on the kinder-garden, herding children. "Return to the recreation room. Come now. No dawdling."

Slowly, the children turned and began to trickle back inside. Francis stayed glued to the spot. Something inside him felt as broken as Nelson's body.

The auto-nanny rolled over, hovering at his side. "Year four must not go past the green level," it said in its mechanical monotone. "The rules are the rules for a reason."

***

At fourteen, Francis was selected for Sandman training. He reported to Arsenal, a complex with neat rows of barracks and offices, surrounding a central simulation chamber. The new recruits were met by Michael 4, their drill sergeant, a tall, broad-shouldered Red with a lantern jaw, glacial eyes and the appropriate air of menace for someone who wore the black-and-gray uniform. He marshaled them into an orderly single file and strode down the line, eyeing each of them in turn.

"You've been selected to train as Sandmen for your physical prowess, adherence to the Tenants of Citizenship, and because your psychological profile indicates you have the emotional makeup to take on this very important responsibility," he lectured as he went. "Most of you will fail. Only the most determined will put on this uniform, wield a weapon, and protect our society from the cowards who choose to run instead of renew. In the coming weeks, we'll see who among you is a Sandman and who'd be better off taking up a pen and writing poetry."

A few of the recruits snickered, and Michael wheeled around, glaring, rendering them silent once more.

"Report to your assigned quarters and stow your gear. At 13:00, we'll assemble in the main auditorium for a briefing on protocol."

They picked up their bags and hurried off to their barracks. Francis located his assigned bunk and stowed the few possessions he'd brought along in the locker at the end of it.

Another recruit settled into the bunk next to his. He was lanky, all knees and elbows, as if he'd had a recent growth spurt and hadn't quite figured out what to do about it. Francis predicted he'd last two days at the most.

The boy caught Francis's eye and smiled. "So what do think about Michael? I sure wouldn't want to get on his bad side."

"Then do as you're told," Francis said curtly.

He turned on his heel and went to report to the auditorium. He was here to become a Sandman, not make idle conversation.

If Francis had thought life in Nursery was regimented, Sandman training taught him the true meaning of the word. There was no part of their day that wasn't carefully programmed, no task that wasn't strictly supervised. They spent long hours in the classroom, immersing themselves in everything a Sandman would need to know: how to use the monitoring system that tracked runners, memorizing the city's geography, repeating by rote, until they hardly had breath left in their lungs, the reasons why a Sandman's duty was sacred.

_A runner is a coward. A runner threatens our way of life. A runner must be stopped. A Sandman shows no mercy. A Sandman terminates all runners. _

Francis threw himself into his studies, repeating the lessons in his head even when they weren't in class, following the rules with a passion only someone who had learned their value the hard way could ever feel.

This dedication brought him to Michael's notice. "You've got the discipline to make a Sandman, I'll say that for you," he remarked one day during their afternoon study period, watching over Francis's shoulder as he worked at a holoscreen, plotting an intercept course for the runner in the test problem. "The real question is: do you have the nerve? Won't know that until we start doing actual drills."

In the simulation chamber, they would be thrown into their first real-time hunt, the environment so life-like it would feel as if they were tracking an actual runner. Those who passed the test would go on to more sophisticated training, begin to work with a weapon. Those who failed…well, they'd go back to wherever they'd come from, consigned to lives as ordinary citizens.

At the end of the day's activities, Francis returned to the barracks. Only weeks into the program, the bunks were already half empty. Francis's neighbor, as predicted, had been among the first to wash out. Francis changed into his sleep clothes and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he returned, a handful of recruits were gathered around Brady 7's bunk, while he regaled them with tales of mishaps that had befallen those who'd dropped out of training. This was a nightly occurrence.

"And then he thought an energy conduit was a runner, and he blacked out an entire sector of the city. I don't know if it's possible for a holo-tutor to yell, but this one seemed to be trying."

A gale of laughter broke out. Francis walked past the bunk, not sparing his fellow recruits a glance. There was only a week to prepare before the start of simulations. He had no time for anything else.

On the appointed day, they gathered at the simulation chamber, and Michael briefed them on the how the test would be conducted. "You'll enter the simulation in teams of four. You will receive information from Control as an actual Sandman would. When you locate the runner, you will all fire. Is that understood?"

They nodded, and he passed out the replica weapons.

"These fire coded beams, so we'll be able to track who hits the target and how long it takes you to respond." He marked them off in fours and motioned toward the simulation chamber door. "Line up. When the doors open, the first team will proceed inside."

Francis waited impatiently, compulsively curling his hands into fists and relaxing them, staring at the doors as if he could see through the thick metal, until finally it was his team's turn.

Inside, there was a perfect replica of Arcade, people everywhere, wandering from one amusement to the next, the high, bright sound of their laughter ringing in the air. Francis's team fanned out, as they'd been taught to do, picking their way through the crowd.

"Runner is Alistair 2, male, five feet, eight inches tall, dark hair, blue eyes. Location, upper level of Arcade, section eight, quadrant three," came the instructions from Control.

Francis raced for the escalator, followed by the rest of his team.

"Runner moving twenty-seven degrees west," Control instructed them.

They sprinted along the gallery, past pleasure shops and drug dens, into a long service corridor. Francis knew this area like he'd been born with the knowledge. He'd stayed at the holoconsole studying every twist and turn of Arcade's passageways until his head ached from the effort. Up ahead, he knew, lay a dead end. They had the runner trapped.

Francis gripped his weapon tighter. He poured on an extra burst of speed, the rest of his team close on his heels. They turned a corner, and there was the runner, huddled against the wall, eyes wide with shock and terror, the crystal in his palm as black as the Sandman's uniform. The kicker was: the runner wore the face of Brady 7.

Francis's compatriots gasped. Francis coolly raised his arm and fired. Brady 7—or his likeness anyway—disappeared in a fiery shimmer.

"That concludes the simulation," Control informed them. "Exit the chamber through the doors to the right."

The rest of Francis's team eyed him warily as they went.

"I know that wasn't really Brady, but still, how could he do that?" one of them whispered to another.

_One person should never be more important to you than another,_ Francis thought, but he didn't bother to say it out loud. Clearly, these three didn't have what it took to be Sandmen. They didn't understand the most basic truth of all: that the only safety was in following the rules.

They emerged from the chamber, and Michael stood waiting for them.

"Report back to the barracks," he said to the three who hadn't fired.

When they'd gone, he gave Francis a long, appraising look. "You're one cold bastard, you know that?" He clapped Francis on the back, grinning. "You're going to make a hell of a Sandman."

 

***

Control was quiet when Francis arrived for his shift. That didn't bode well for getting any action today. He went over to Jameson who was seated at the console, monitoring the city for signs of criminal activity.

"Got anything?" he asked, leaning in to take a look.

Jameson shook his head. "So far, it's quiet. But, hey, maybe you'll get lucky, and a riot will break out." He grinned up at Francis.

Francis scowled at him. Jameson just laughed, and Francis stalked over to the Armory to receive his weapon.

"Please state your identity," the computer's voice requested.

He placed his hand on the identi-pad. "Francis 7."

"Identity confirmed." A panel retracted, and the weapon slid out. "Your service to the city is appreciated, Francis 7."

Francis took the weapon, checked it, and went to consult the duty roster to see which part of the city he'd be patrolling this shift. A handful of Sandmen gathered around the console, receiving their assignments. They glanced up at his approach and quickly scattered. Francis had no idea what that was about. He leaned in to check the roster, and then he understood.

"What the hell?" he said out loud.

Thomas, the shift supervisor, came over. "Just calm down, Francis."

Francis glared at him. "You know I work better alone."

Thomas held up his hands. "It's not up to me. Protocol says Sandmen work in two-men teams. You've been on your own since we lost Carl, but now we have a replacement. The rules are the rules for a reason, right?"

Francis let out his breath slowly. He couldn't argue with that. "So, where is this new partner?"

Thomas jerked his head toward the administrative office. "Still getting checked in. Come on. I'll introduce you."

The new Sandman sat at the main console in the office while the computer scanned him. He was compact, athletic as all Sandmen were, with blond hair brushed back from his face, a strong jaw, and a very pretty mouth. Francis irritably pushed that last thought away.

"Logan 5 meet Francis 7, your new partner." Thomas cast a grin at Francis before quickly departing.

Logan smiled up at Francis. "Good to meet you. I'm almost finished here, and then we can head out. I'm looking forward to working together."

Francis ignored the inane pleasantries. "We're in Arcade today. We need to get going."

As if on cue, the computer announced, "Scan complete. Welcome to Central Control, Logan 5."

Logan's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Thank you."

Francis looked to the ceiling. What was he supposed to do with a partner who went around smiling all the time?

Logan stopped at the Armory to receive his weapon. Francis fell in beside him, however reluctantly, and they headed for Arcade. Francis liked to vary his route through the maze of people and kiosks. It wouldn't do to be predictable, to let wrong-thinkers intent on breaking the rules get too comfortable. Today, he headed for the upper gallery first. Logan followed along without question. At least, he seemed to respect Francis's authority, if nothing else.

"So, how long have you been with Central Control?" Logan asked as they made their way past the line of shops.

Francis scowled. Of course, the guy would want to make idle chitchat. He stole a glance at Logan out of the side of his eye. He was loose-limbed, utterly relaxed, his expression open, even approachable, hardly the proper demeanor for a Sandman. Francis couldn't imagine that he'd be anything but useless on the trail of a runner. How had he even made it through Sandman training?

"I was with Northern Control for five years," Logan said. "When this opening came up, I thought: why not? Might as well be closer to the action."

Francis ignored him, giving a Red who'd bumped into him a slit-eyed look, making her scuttle away.

Logan seemed content to carry on the conversation by himself. "Of course, I've studied the layout of this part of the city, but I don't really know it yet. You'll have to show me around. Take me to all the hot spots." He smiled at Francis, warmth sparking in his eyes.

Before Francis could snap that he didn't have time to waste on hot spots, a transmission came from Control, "There's a runner near your position, heading forty-one degrees north."

Francis took off, not waiting to talk over a plan of attack. It wasn't like he'd wanted a partner in the first place. Logan surprised him by keeping pace, slipping through the crowd at Francis's side, his gaze intently focused on each person he passed, no hint left of the light-hearted, laughing expression he'd worn only seconds before.

They spotted the runner near a narcotics kiosk, a pale-haired woman with a worried look, not exactly inconspicuous. Some runners had an escape plan, but most simply panicked as the final hour drew near, losing their faith in Renewal, racing off without any real thought about where they were going or how they'd get there. This woman, Samantha 3, was clearly one of the latter.

At the Auxiliary nexus, Francis turned to Logan to tell him to take the service corridor and cut off the runner's escape route, but he was gone. Francis shook his head, pushed away a rush of annoyance, and focused on his quarry. He'd done just fine terminating runners on his own. He didn't need a partner, especially not one who wandered off in the middle of a chase.

He slinked along, keeping enough distance between him and the runner that she wouldn't spot him and bolt. They neared the outer limits of Arcade, and the crowds started to thin. The runner headed for the connecting passageway to Promenade. Francis followed silently.

Once they hit the passageway, it was only the two of them, no place to hide. The woman darted a nervous glance back over her shoulder and cried out in terror when she saw Francis pursuing her. She broke into a run, and Francis gave chase. She was faster than she looked, propelled by desperation. Francis wasn't losing ground, but he wasn't exactly gaining any, either. He cursed the runner in his head, took a deep breath, and strained his muscles to go faster.

It proved unnecessary. They rounded the final turn before reaching Promenade, and suddenly there was Logan, weapon drawn, racing toward them.

The woman skidded to a stop, her chest heaving. She glanced around frantically, but there was nowhere else to run. She unleashed a pleading look on Francis, but his revulsion must have shown in his expression. She turned to Logan. "Please," she said, her voice a thin rasp.

Logan lifted his weapon and fired, matter-of-factly terminating her. In that moment, there was nothing in his eyes but cool determination. Francis stared in surprise. It was like looking into a mirror.

"You want to call for a disposer?" Logan lowered his arm.

Francis nodded and sent the message. Moments later, the disposer arrived to take care of the body.

Logan clapped Francis on the back. "Good chase, huh? You ready to get back on patrol?" His expression was once again relaxed and affable.

"Yes, we should—" Francis stopped himself. He shouldn't underestimate Logan. That had been the lesson of the morning, hadn't it? "How do you want to proceed?"

Logan broke into a smile. "Well, partner, I was thinking we could take a pass by the pleasure parlors. I was looking into the files on the Archive. There seems to be a connection between those places and some of the more prepared runners. We should show our faces around there, put the fear of Sandmen in them."

Francis needed a moment to get over his surprise that Logan had put so much thought into it, and then he nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Um, partner." The word stuck in his throat a bit.

Logan's smile grew wider.

The rest of their patrol went smoothly. Logan seemed to have a sixth sense for what Francis was thinking, anticipating his moves and backing him up. By the end of their shift, it felt as if they'd been working together for years.

"Hey, what do you have planned for the evening?" Logan asked once they were back at Control, returning their weapons.

Francis shook his head. "Just going home."

"Oh, come on," Logan cajoled him, slinging an arm across his shoulders. "Our first day as a team, and we terminated a runner. That calls for a celebration." They left the building, and Logan turned them toward Arcade. "So, what's your thing? Want to get a lift at one of the hallucinogen shops? Or we could go see a show at a sex emporium. Or, hey, we could just get a drink and pick up some girls."

"I don't—" Francis rarely did any of those things, but somehow that wasn't something he wanted to share with Logan.

Logan stopped outside a club called Pleasures. "This is a good place from what I hear." A pair of Greens, nearly identical blondes, with long legs and transparent dresses, giggled as they passed them on their way inside. "And we'll certainly have all the company we can handle."

Francis hesitated, eyeing the club dubiously.

Logan nudged him with his elbow. "Come on. Partners should get to know each other. And besides, the more pleasure you take, the more pleasure you make, right?"

That was a rule. Francis couldn't argue with it. "Let's go then." He opened the door and held it for Logan.

Spending time with his new partner—what could it hurt?

 

***

 

There were times, even before it all went wrong, when Francis wondered if Logan was becoming too important to him. But, no, he always told himself. They were Sandmen. They were a team. If they didn't have a connection, they couldn't do their jobs.

At the end of today's shift, Francis waited for Logan to finish turning in his weapon. "So, Pleasures?" They'd been partners for years by now, and they still hit the club together most every night.

Logan smiled wryly. "Careful, Francis. Those women will chew you up and spit you out."

Francis returned the smile, conspiratorially. "But what a way to go. Come on. You know you want to."

Logan shook his head. "Not tonight. I feel kind of—" He ducked his head. "I'm just tired, I guess."

They'd tracked a runner into Cathedral, always a dangerous game, and things had gotten ugly quickly. Eventually, they'd terminated their subject, but not before they'd tangled with a pack of Cubs, psychotic and bloodthirsty as usual. They'd both gotten knocked around. Logan ended up with a gash above his eye that the auto-med had needed to take care of. Eventually they'd managed to scare off most of the Cubs, but a few simply had no fear of a weapon. They'd put down three of them in the end. Logan seemed to feel some kind of…regret about that. Francis couldn't fathom why. They'd terminated the runner. They'd survived. As far as Francis was concerned, that was cause for celebration.

"You'll get bored if you spend the whole night at home," Francis told him. "Meet me later?"

"I don't know," Logan said hesitantly. "Maybe."

"You'll be glad you did, trust me," Francis told him. "You do trust me, don't you, Logan?"

This made Logan smile, even if the expression was a little tired around the edges. "You know I do."

They split up at the Central Nexus, Logan heading off to his quarters, Francis to Arcade and the diversions of Pleasures. His body thrummed with adrenaline, with an edge of hunger that had nothing to do with the need for food. He could admit to himself what he would never say to Logan, that he didn't fear going into Cathedral. He lived for it. Runners were scared sheep, being herded to slaughter. Only Cubs put up any kind of fight, strength against strength, primitive cunning against a Sandman's instincts and training. Francis quickened his pace, arousal singing through his blood.

It took Francis's eyes a moment to adjust to the low light as he stepped through the doors, and then he could make out naked limbs, writhing bodies. Beneath the pulsing music he could hear the high, breathy sounds of pleasure.

"Sandman," whispered through the crowd as he advanced further into the room, a tinge of fear and excitement in the word.

Francis made his way through the throngs, his sharp gaze sweeping the room, searching for what might take the edge off his hunger. He could have anything he wanted. It was just a matter of choosing. In one of the banquettes along the wall, a woman with long red hair that hung like a curtain down her back rose and fell over the man she was riding, her breasts round and bouncing, her mouth pursed with pleasure. Cushions lay scattered across the floor for the convenience of the establishment's patrons. A blond man was on his hands and knees, head lowered, while a larger, dark-haired man took him from behind. The blond man glanced up—strong jaw and cheekbones as sharp as a blade—and _Logan_ flashed through Francis's head, along with the vicious need to possess.

Shock swamped him. No, no, that wasn't what he wanted.

"Hey, Sandman. Want to have some fun?" A pretty brunette with curly hair and unnaturally bright eyes twined herself around him.

He clamped an arm around her waist, forcing his mouth roughly onto hers, tasting blood. _This_, this was what he wanted. Not—not anything else.

The woman murmured encouragingly, "Yeah, Sandman. Give it to me. I can take it."

He slipped a hand beneath her dress and slid his palm along her thigh. She wasn't wearing panties, and he slipped his fingers between her legs. She gasped. She was already wet.

Another woman, a blonde with wide, unfocused eyes, materialized out of the crowd and pressed herself to his side. "You look like you can handle both of us, huh, Sandman?" She leaned close and kissed him.

Francis steered them over to the nearest banquette. A pointed glare, and the previous occupants scattered. The blonde flopped back onto the cushion, pulling the brunette with her, a tangle of long, bare legs.

"Come on, Sandman. Let's party." The blonde licked her lips.

Francis clambered onto the cushion, kneeling beside them. He kissed one and then the other, stroked his hands over firm breasts and up a smooth, bare leg. His cock pressed insistently against his uniform, and he imagined sinking into wet, yielding flesh. It would feel good. So good.

But it wasn't quite enough.

He drew back. The brunette gazed up at him with wide, dazed eyes.

The blonde frowned. "What's wrong, Sandman? Don't you want to have a good time?"

Francis took her by the hand. "Come on. Both of you. We're going to a private party."

The women giggled as they tumbled out of the banquette. Francis led them out of the club and over to the transport. They hopped into a car. Logan's place wasn't far. At Logan's door, Francis input the entry code and herded the women inside. He didn't expect Logan to have company, but he found him deep in conversation with a serious-looking dark-haired woman.

Francis frowned. "Are we interrupting?"

"Oh, no, not at all," the woman said quickly. "I was just leaving." She slipped past him and out the door. He stared after her. There was something about her that set his instincts on edge. She was a Green, though, so if she did one day turn runner, it would be up to some other Sandman to stop her. Francis would have long since renewed by then.

He turned his attention back to Logan. "You didn't come to Pleasures. So we brought the party to you."

Logan's face lit with a smile, and Francis relaxed a little. Maybe he really hadn't interrupted anything after all.

"Well, come on then." Francis clapped his hands together. "Let's get this party started."

He and the girls sprawled on the couch. Logan brought out a bottle of liquor, and they did a round of shots. Francis pulled the blonde to him, leaving the brunette for Logan. He always seemed to prefer them dark-haired. The blonde tried to wriggle closer, lost her balance, and nearly went toppling off the couch. Francis had to catch her by the arm and reel her back in. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown. She was totally flying. He tangled his hand in her hair and kissed her. She murmured against his mouth and kissed back, deep and wet and filthy, her hands balled up in the fabric of his uniform.

He darted a glance over at Logan, who had the brunette straddling his lap, while he kissed her and palmed her breasts. Francis undid the fastening of his girl's dress, pushed it down and licked at a nipple. The blonde squealed with pleasure, her eyes flying closed. She reached between his legs and squeezed his cock through his uniform. Sounds drifted over from Logan and his girl: the rustle of fabric, wet, slurping noises, Logan's low, guttural groan as the brunette wet down on him. Francis bucked his hips, pushing into the blonde's touch. This was good. This was what he'd been missing before.

He and Logan had developed the same instinctive teamwork in seduction that they relied on when they were out on patrol. A quick glance, and they both urged their girls up from the couch. Time to retire to the bedroom to fuck. They shed what remained of their clothes on the way. Francis tumbled his girl back onto the mattress, making her giggle. Logan had an enormous bed, and he and the brunette stretched out on the other side of it.

Francis crawled up the bed, kissing as he went, making a place for himself between the girl's legs. She let out a pleased, encouraging sound and raked her nails down his back. He rocked against her, pushing his cock against her thigh, and kissed her breasts, rubbing his cheek against soft skin. He lifted his head, to ask if she was ready, and found she'd passed out on him.

"Shit!" He pulled back, running a hand through his hair.

Meanwhile, Logan seemed to be having much the same trouble. His girl had gone completely limp, and he flopped back onto the bed.

Francis stretched out next to him with a frustrated groan. "They took something on the way over. I didn't see what it was. But apparently they took way too much of it."

Logan laughed wryly. "If I was on something, maybe I wouldn't mind so much."

Francis nodded. He still thrummed with want, his cock hard and wet against his belly. He darted a sideways glance at Logan, at his naked body, beautifully made and just as aroused as Francis was. Francis could smell it, the scent of Logan's excitement, deep and thrillingly masculine. The muscles tightened in his belly. There was no decision, no thought process. It was all instinct—to turn onto his side, cup Logan's jaw in his hand, and kiss him.

"Mmm," Logan murmured against Francis's lips.

Francis pulled back. Logan lay lazily sprawled, staring up at him, a laughing expression in his eyes, as if he thought Francis had been joking. Francis kissed him again, more demandingly, and reached for Logan's cock, wrapping his fist around it, squeezing firmly.

Logan gasped, and after a moment, he started to kiss back, hands closing around Francis's shoulders, pulling him closer. A distant alarm sounded in Francis's head, a warning that he really shouldn't be doing this, but he drowned it out with an insistent mantra of, _I'm expanding my horizons, nothing wrong with that._

"Francis." Logan's voice was intimate and familiar, and it sent a shiver all down Francis's back. He couldn't remember anyone ever calling him by his name during sex.

Logan smiled softly, as if he could read Francis's thoughts. "Francis," he said again, stroking his hand down Francis's belly and curling it around Francis's cock.

"Fuck!" Francis pushed greedily into his grip.

Logan smiled, eyes bright with amusement. Francis bit a kiss onto his lips and moved on top of him, forcing his wrists above his head, holding them against the mattress, desperately rutting against him. Logan's eyes turned darker, the expression in them sharper. He broke Francis's grip, grappled at Francis's shoulders, ran his hands down Francis's back, cupping his ass in his hands, taking control, pulling him into every thrust. Strength to strength. Sandman instinct to Sandman instinct. Desire burned through Francis, and in the second before he came all over Logan's belly, a revelation flashed through his head: _This_, finally, was what he'd been waiting for.

***

Afterward, after Francis had forced his sticky body back into his uniform and roused the groggy women and left Logan still soundly sleeping, he told himself: _I've broadened my horizons. I've had sex with another Sandman. Now I can move on._

There was no awkwardness on the job, at least. He and Logan worked together just as effortlessly as ever. The difference was all in their personal connection. Francis took to bowing out of their usual nightly carousing. A flash of something—surprise or disappointment—would flash across Logan's face whenever Francis offered up another feeble excuse. _Long day. Too tired. I've got things to do._ But then Logan would smile and clap him on the shoulder and say in an even voice, "Another night then."

Francis was back to work-and-home, work-and-home. Before Logan, that had been his life. Now he didn't quite know what to do with himself alone in the too-quiet rooms of his quarters. He desultorily picked up the remote and began flipping through the various offerings on the Circuit. Maybe he'd find some antidote to his restlessness. A tall, curvaceous redhead…petite brunette…a blonde who'd already taken her clothes off…Logan…

It took a moment for that to sink in, and then Francis hastily flipped back. He wasn't just seeing things. That really was Logan offering himself up. Before Francis could think it through, he'd hit the select button.

Logan materialized in his quarters. He blinked at Francis and then broke into a sheepish smile. "I know Sandman don't usually put themselves on the Circuit, but you kept leaving me to my own devices." He shrugged.

Francis grabbed him by the wrist and reeled him in. The kiss was so fierce he tasted copper in his mouth, his blood or Logan's, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that the terrible aimlessness of the past weeks was gone. He felt sharp, alive, purposeful. Logan surged against him, kissing back just as roughly, his fingers clutching at Francis's arms, leaving bruises. Francis could feel Logan's dick hardening against his hip. He'd been hard himself since his first glimpse of Logan on the Circuit.

He pulled Logan by the arm down the hall to his bedroom. He stripped off Logan's clothes and his own, and tumbled Logan back onto the bed. Logan planted his feet flat against the mattress, knees bent, legs spread. Francis didn't bother to ask him what he wanted. You didn't put yourself on the Circuit to be in control.

He fumbled around in a drawer and came up with a tube of Slippery. He squirted some onto his hand, knelt between Logan's splayed thighs, and pressed two fingers into him, hard and fast. Logan sucked in his breath through his teeth. He didn't do this often, apparently. Of course, a Sandman wouldn't. But he rode Francis's fingers, staring up at him with impossibly dark eyes, clearly eager for it now.

Francis slicked his cock and guided it to Logan's hole. He felt Logan tense at his entry, a low sound pulled out of him, more pain than pleasure. Francis stilled until he felt Logan start to relax, and then he eased further inside him. He squeezed his eyes shut at the sensation. Hot and tight and _Logan_.

Logan murmured something, encouraging sounding nonsense, and Francis started to move. He could feel Logan's thighs tremble, but the tight pinch of his expression had eased. Francis moved deeper, watching Logan's face, and when he found the right spot, Logan's eyes went wide and pleasure-bright. He grappled at Francis's shoulders, pulling him down into a sloppy kiss.

Francis stroked a hand up Logan's chest, fingers toying with his nipples, while he fucked into him deeper and harder. Logan fumbled a hand onto his own cock.

"Francis." It was low, breathless, and Francis felt the word sing through his body, an electric spark, making him burn even hotter. "Francis, I can't—"

Logan arched up, and his body clenched tightly around Francis's cock as he came all over their bellies.

Francis dug his fingers into Logan's hips and pumped harder and faster into him. As he spilled into Logan's body, he called out his name, and it actually _meant_ something.

They stretched out together afterward, Logan half sprawled across Francis's chest. Francis threaded his fingers absently through Logan's hair. The last thing he expected was for Logan to start laughing, but there it was, the sound as clear and strong as a bell. Francis angled a look at him, eyebrow raised.

"I thought you didn't want to do this anymore," Logan explained. "You've been avoiding me."

"Yes. Well," Francis said stiffly.

Logan leaned up on one elbow to kiss him. "The more pleasure you take, the more you make, right?"

_One person should never be more important to you than another,_ a dissenting voice piped up in Francis's head. He ignored it, stroking his thumb along Logan's jaw. "Right." He smiled and kissed Logan again.

Logan settled back down with a contented sigh, turned onto his side, and was soon asleep. Francis curled against his back, an arm slung across Logan's waist, listening to the soft in-and-out of his breath. He hadn't felt like this since he was a child, like he had everything he could possibly ever want. Like he was complete.

***

_When you start to question one thing, you start to question everything. That's why a good citizen asks no questions at all._ They'd learned that in Nursery. But Francis convinced himself that he could hold his own opinion about just this one thing, that he could let a person be important to him, and everything would still be fine.

And it _was_ fine for a while. They were just the same at work as they'd ever been, perfectly in sync, deadly to every runner who had the misfortune to cross their path. The only difference now was that they went home together at the end of a shift instead of out to Pleasures. In those moments when Francis had Logan naked and begging beneath him, he felt utterly certain there couldn't be anything wrong in what they were doing.

Maybe he was too eager to believe that. Maybe that was why it took him longer than it should have to notice something had happened to Logan. The change seemed to begin after an ordinary termination of a runner. Well, perhaps ordinary wasn't the right word. The man led them a merry chase through the city, one of the more prepared criminals Francis had ever come across, probably a true believer in Sanctuary, as ridiculous a notion as that was. In the end, Logan took the shot, beautifully lethal as ever. Francis congratulated him afterward, and they returned to Control, triumphant after a productive days' work.

Logan's good humor had disappeared, though, when he returned from disposing of the runner's possessions. They headed toward Francis's quarters, and Logan was quiet, clearly distracted.

"Hey." Francis nudged him with his elbow.

That drew a smile from Logan at last, and Francis pulled him into a niche between shops where they wouldn't be seen. He backed Logan up against the wall and kissed him full on the mouth. "Do you have any idea the things I want to do to you?"

Logan shook his head, still smiling. "I think you're going to have to explain it to me."

Francis pressed against him more urgently and whispered filth in his ear. Logan gripped Francis's arms, fingers digging in, and Francis could feel him getting hard. Finally, Logan pushed him away and grabbed his hand. "Come on."

They fucked in the entryway of Francis's quarters, too desperate for each other to make it to the bedroom, barely managing to get the door closed before the clothes started to come off. They ate whatever they could find in Francis's cupboards and drank a bottle of wine, still naked and sticky, standing at the kitchen counter. Then they went to bed and had sex again, Logan rising and falling over Francis, riding him. Francis was breathless and spent afterward, holding Logan in his arms, lazily drawing patterns with his finger on his smooth, bare back. But Logan's attention had wandered again; Francis could feel it.

"What is it?" He pressed a kiss to Logan's hair.

Logan shook his head. "Nothing."

"You don't get this distracted over nothing," Francis said, reminding Logan that he knew him too well for bullshit.

"Well," Logan said tentatively, and he shifted so he could look Francis in the face. "Have you ever thought that maybe there is no such thing as Renewal?"

Francis froze. It felt like being stabbed through the heart with something sharp and icy, terror for Logan warring with his Sandman's instinct to punish wrong-thinkers.

"Of course not," he scoffed. "Why would I think nonsense like that? You know me better than that."

Logan persisted. "Have you ever _known_ someone to renew?"

"Well, no," Francis admitted, "but—"

"What if it's all just a lie? Francis—" Urgency flashed in Logan's eyes, as if there was something he wanted to tell him.

Francis gripped his arm. "What?"

Logan hesitated, and Francis waited, not daring to breathe. Finally Logan just shook his head. "Nothing. It's nonsense, like you said. Forget I said anything." He rolled over on top of Francis. "Besides, we've got better things to do."

_Never let sex get in the way. Never let anything distract from your duty._ They'd repeated that by rote every day during Sandman training. It was a lot harder to live by, Francis discovered, when you were having sex with someone who was important to you.

A few days later, they got separated during patrol. Francis had some administrative work to take care of at Control, and Logan waited around restlessly, pacing up and down, until Francis finally told him, "Go get started without me. I'll catch up."

Francis was still in Control when the call went out to Logan that a runner was heading toward Cathedral. Francis watched the glowing blips on the screen, hunter and quarry. At last, the computer cleared him for duty. He grabbed his weapon and raced off to join the chase.

He monitored the transmissions between Logan and Control, tracking Logan's position. He arrived at Cathedral just in time to see Logan corner the runner. Logan raised his weapon and aimed, and Francis waited for that familiar moment when Logan's expression would go clear and determined, but it never came. Logan lowered his weapon, and jerked his chin, and the quivering coward of a runner ran off. Francis should have chased her, should have taken care of what Logan had left unfinished, but shock stuck him to the spot.

Logan had that dark-haired woman in tow for some reason, the one that Francis had walked in on when he'd brought over those drugged-up girls, the night when they'd slept together for the first time. Francis should have listened to his instincts then. He knew she was trouble the moment he saw her. On the comm device, he heard Jackson report that he'd terminated the runner Logan had let go. At least that had been taken care of.

He went to join Logan, ignoring the dark-haired woman as if she didn't exist. "What happened? It looked like you had that runner right where you wanted her."

The dark-haired woman's shoulders stiffened, and her already serious expression turned even bleaker. "I should go." She turned quickly.

"Jessica," Logan said, a sharp note in his voice that might have been desperation.

She looked back, and there was meaning in the glance they exchanged, a promise of some sort, a plan even. Francis got that icy, stabbing sensation in his chest again.

"What happened, Logan?" Francis asked again once Jessica had gone, hoping that Logan would just tell him.

_I had a shot, and I froze._ Francis would put a hand on his shoulder and tell him, _It's okay. It could happen to anyone. Everybody makes mistakes._ That wasn't what they'd learned in Sandman training, of course. _A Sandman who doesn't do his duty is worse than the most cowardly runner._ But that didn't matter. This was _Logan_, and Francis would happily forgive him, if only he would just _say_ it.

But Logan only shrugged. "I don't know. She just got away from me. Come on. Let's get back on patrol."

Francis should have taken him back to Control right then, reported what he'd witnessed, but he didn't. He fell in alongside Logan and tried to pretend nothing was wrong. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Logan was jumpy, distracted. Occasionally, a hunted expression would flash across his face. Francis had seen the same signs a hundred times before, but no, it couldn't be. Sandmen didn't run. Logan, of all people, wouldn't do that.

At the end of their shift, Francis headed back toward Control. Maybe when he got Logan alone, he could talk some sense into him.

Logan caught him by the arm as they neared the building. "Wait." He pulled Francis off to a quiet corner. "There's something I need to do. You go on ahead, and I'll catch up with you."

"Logan," Francis said sternly, intending to follow it with, _You need to come with me. You have to answer for what you've done._ But what came out was, "I know what really happened. I saw you let that runner go, and I don't care. Just don't—_don't_."

"Francis." Logan regarded him solemnly. "There's something I have to do. It's not what it's going to look like." He slid his hand along Francis's jaw and leaned in, his face earnest and just as beautiful as ever. The kiss was deep and long and probably meant to be reassuring, but it tasted distinctly like goodbye. "Just trust me. You do trust me, don't you, Francis?"

Logan tasted like goodbye, and Francis knew the signs, but he found himself nodding anyway. "I'll see you later then." He took Logan's face between his hands, pressed a hard, quick kiss to his mouth, and continued on to Control.

He turned in his weapon, busied himself with reports that didn't really need to be finished, and waited for Logan's return, as futile as he suspected that was.

When Logan was an hour overdue, Thomas came to him. "Logan hasn't turned in his weapon yet. Have you seen him?"

Francis shook his head. "He said he had something to do."

Thomas pressed his lips together, not looking pleased.

Jameson called out from his position at the monitor, "It's Logan. His life clock just turned black."

Thomas and Francis hurried over to the monitor. The blip that was Logan headed in the direction of Cathedral, the favorite route for runners. _Trust me_, he'd said. Francis watched the monitor, willing the blip to stop, turn around, do the right thing.

But it just kept going.

Thomas directed a questioningly glance at Francis, He nodded and went over to the Armory, put his hand on the identi-pad, and retrieved his weapon. He hefted it in his hand, checking the firing mechanism, sighting down the barrel. The icy sensation was spreading, taking him over, until he was nothing but cold, through and through.

_A runner is a coward. A runner threatens our way of life. A runner must be stopped. A Sandman shows no mercy. A Sandman terminates all runners. _

The rules were the rules for a reason.


End file.
